Killing Is My Business
by Vegeta the Vain
Summary: A couple OC's... David and Sebastian have been good friends since the beginning of this war. They've survived and thrived in a time where hope is diminishing. But how long can the good times last? The carelessness of youth will be abrubtly ended. btw, AU


I was starting to get warm beneath my bulky armor, but I knew it was there for a purpose. Laser pistols, plasma rifles, and good old-fashioned fragmentation grenades were the components of my arsenal. Killing was my business… and business was good.

The suit I wore was standard issue: Every Marine wore one.

"David!" my friend, Sebastian, cried out. It was a humorous call, one suggesting a joke, and I turned as another searing hot blast of plasma soared past my head.

I caught sight of him immediately; he was the only Marine in our platoon who would dare fight without a helmet. I looked over his suit, checking for flaws or damage. It was in pristine condition, each angle and edge straight and sharp, each side dent free.

The black compound, a heat resistant material called RiboSteel, was clean and his undecorated black helmet lay undisturbed next to him, the red tinted visor lifted.

He was aiming and firing at an alarming rate. He was the fastest shot in the platoon.

Walking to him with my eyes scanning the area for other alien weapon fire, I asked, "What'd you do this time Sebastian? Hit 'em right between the eyes?".

His reply was, "Nope. Just found a way to down 'em in one. Watch me."

I used my onboard computer to zoom my sight where he was pointing. After the magnification Sebastian took quick aim and fired again. The plasma blast flew through the air and I watched as it went straight into the barrel of an ugly brute's Tesla carbine.

The electric gun overloaded, catastrophically failing, causing an explosion which was powerful enough to eliminate the thug and knock down the few surrounding him.

I laughed and he joined in, the hilarity mounting as he did it again to a smaller alien. The platoon sergeant came by during the course of his killing spree and saw us laughing.

He barked at us, "These damn things aren't gonna shoot themselves are they? Get back to work!" After he left we exchanged looks, knowing full well that these beasts were some of the stupidest in the known universe. After five years in war, it was common knowledge.

We reluctantly returned to killing, taking careful aim and mowing down the aliens as more and more came forth.

"DROPSHIP!" shouted one of the others in the distant end of the platoon, and sure enough, the scarlet glare of a Covenant dropship, angular and sharp, with triangles and other polygons making up the ship's exterior. It was a ship I knew well.

It landed deep behind enemy lines, releasing a large assortment of aliens, large and small, fearsome and cowardly, all exiting through a hydraulic hatch.

"HUNTER!" shouted one of the other distant men. This largest of the aliens seemed the most primal. It had tentacles sprouting from its waist sides and it had the face of an angry man who had been mutilated and stitched back together. It had one eye and it must have been eight feet tall. It was well armed, a large shield on its left arm and the biggest weapon I had ever seen attached to its right. The gun must have been a combination, because it resembled a Tesla carbine and a plasma blaster. It gave a gargantuan roar and rushed to the frontline with surprising speed and agility. The Hunter was the most fearsome monster of their army, literally comprised of human and alien parts and the minds of their most brutal leaders or warriors past, roughly hewn together as a fine brain was stuffed into the terrible head. They were merciless, bloodthirsty, and had a deep loathing for mankind.

This Hunter charged forward, leading the weaker and dumber into the no man's land between our stake-outs. They fought with brutality; I watched the platoon sergeant tackled and viciously slaughtered by five smaller aliens.

The Jackals, as we called them, were small but ferocious beasts. They had an insectoid body and a head like a grossly enlarged spider's, yet with only two eyes. It had four armored arms and two double-jointed legs. Each Jackal held two Tesla pistols and two plasma pistols.

These terrible creatures ripped apart the platoon sergeant with their bare, sharp hands. He was reduced to a pile of flesh and blood while the Jackals gnawed at his bones. His RiboSteel suit was diminished, a pile of rubble and ruined parts next to and on the bloody lump.

Everybody, myself included, ran for their lives. I turned only when I heard a scream, a very familiar scream.

"Sebastian!" I shouted, and I turned to find a sight of true horror. Sebastian, my best friend since I was drafted, was pinned down by the fire of two Jackals. With another jolt of horror, I saw that a Hunter was fast approaching.

I was low on ammo so I was no use. I watched, helpless, as the Hunter charged and gave an almighty roar.

It rushed Sebastian and the Jackals backed off, standing on either side of Sebastian while the beast skidded to a crashing halt in front of him. The world seemed muted, though plasma and Tesla beams still tore through the air. The beast gave as thoughtful a look as it could, given those terrible features, as though pondering what to do to this next victim of.

I saw Sebastian's look of fear mingled with exhilaration. Even facing death, he was excited by the adventure and action.

Some of the Brutes, the sharpshooters and foot soldiers armed with Brute Tesla carbines, watched as the brutish Hunter lifted a swollen fist, preparing to strike.

* * *

><p>My memories flooded my mind. I remembered training; he had been the funniest and most entertaining of our platoon ever since he had been drafted. He was drafted just a week and a half after I had been, and training was a riot.<p>

He would tell us jokes, poking fun even at the fact that we were sent to a strange planet to fight, possibly right into our own graves.

Sometimes he stood behind our future platoon sergeant as he took charge, and Sebastian would mouth everything he said and copy his hand gestures, acting innocent when the platoon sergeant turned to see exactly what we were sniggering at.

Even when we were alone playing ping-pong in the recreation room, he showed no fear, only anticipation.

The war was sparked in 2020. I was 25 and was drafted via Selective Service. Ten years after my high school career, the human race had developed destructive weapons and armor equal to that of the alien races. When the Covenant races learned of our advancements, their leaders consulted with the prophets, the Elders, who informed them that their gods had deemed the human race inferior and unworthy. The leaders interpreted that as an order to exterminate the human race.

They declared open warfare with their attack on London, where hundreds lost their lives to the brutal aliens. The monstrosities invaded London and many innocent men died in what had now developed into a holy war. We countered with a declaration of war and began shipping troops to each Covenant-occupied planet to fight back.

Our weapons and training rivaled that of the greatest warriors of the stars, of the stature and size of man, but even our superior training was little match for the brute force, strength, and sheer numbers of Covenant troops.

With an abrupt return to reality, I saw as though in slow motion as the Hunter swung its fist at Sebastian. The haymaker missed his head narrowly after Sebastian rolled to the right.

* * *

><p>He went to draw his combat knife, but the monster swung again, and this time its aim was true. Its fist crushed Sebastian's skull with a sickening crunch. The knife fell to the ground with a thud and Sebastian's arm fell limply at his side; tears rolled underneath my RiboSteel helmet, hot liquid leaving a salty deposit on my cheeks.<p>

There was no time to waste. My ammo was dry and my platoon had scattered. The Covenant had set up a jammer, so I couldn't locate my fellows. The time to mourn was not when I was alone on a hostile planet; therefore I turned and ran like so many others, hiding within groves of foreign trees.

The bark was smooth and black, while the leaves resembled palm fronds, only they line the trunk from a foot up to the top. The leaves rustled with the breeze.

I took cover in a small alcove and turned off my suit's functions: they would only reveal my location to any searching Covenant. When a few Jackals walked by on their spindly legs, I curled up in the alcove and held my breath as they passed.

When they left, I departed, carefully hiking with my guns mounted on the back of my suit and my helmet held under my shoulder. I was lucky not to be found.

With my suit's regulatory systems disabled, I grew hot and exhausted quickly; the planet itself was literally hostile, a thin atmosphere making it blistering hot and difficult to breath.

I made good time, my training put to good use.

By the time twilight hit, it grew bitingly cold. Fire was not an option, so I put on my helmet and turned on the regulatory functions, maintaining warmth and air levels necessary for me to sleep with my sleep apnea.

When I woke, I heard odd sounds, rustles and cracks of twigs, as though someone or something was getting near. I drew my combat knife and held it, ready to throw. It turned out to be a true jackalope.

"This is the weirdest place I've ever been," I said to myself, throwing the knife with a whoosh into the creature.

I started a fire for necessity and used sticks to roast the jackalope rotisserie-style over open flame. Removing my helmet while the jackalope cooked, I ate it from the stick, nearly burning my throat with the hot meat.

It was the best food I had eaten since our platoon was shipped to the hellhole called Hades. As the name suggests, with these aliens, this planet was a literal hell. Hot during the day, cold at night, and murderous, demonic monsters out for your blood made Hades a place to fear and to watch your own back.

The meal filled my empty stomach well and I continued after obliterating all trace of my fire.

I put my helmet on and shut down the systems again: the Covenant were most active during the day. I held my knife in hand at all times for safety reasons; I couldn't defend myself if I was caught unarmed. The knife was razor sharp, perfect for slicing and tearing through alien flesh and armor.

I stopped to rest on the side of a Covenant transport highway. After careful thought, I remembered a snippet from the news back on Earth.

An outpost had been abandoned on Hades nearly five years ago; right when I had began training. The outpost was said to have contained a vast store of weapons and vehicles, and I made it my priority to find the place. With decent weapons and a car, I might have half a chance of surviving and escaping that evil place.

I knew the only way out would be on a dropship, whether hijacked or allied. The outpost might have some long distance communication, a way to summon a human dropship, a RiboSteel shipping bus known as a Pelican. Each Pelican could hold up to thirty soldiers, or one platoon.

I left the road and meandered through the strange forest, looking for signs and I don't know what else.

The news grew grim when I found an area with a high concentration of Brute guards. I had no clue as to what they were guarding, and I crept into the site, blending into the shadows with my dark, muddy suit.

I was disappointed. They were guarding a recent ruin, a Pelican crash site. A whole platoon might have been slaughtered there. I left just in time, right as a Hunter came by on his rounds, searching for survivors.

Wandering more, and wondering whether I would ever find the place, I stumbled. An empty older style plasma blaster lay on the ground. It was a good sign.

I continued forth, finding laser rifles and plasma pistols, all empty and lying on the ground.

I found a large, muddy four wheeling tire, for a vehicle designed to carry up to six units in. These vehicles were called Warthogs. They were designed after hummers and jeeps.

The outpost stood in a clearing, a wonderful sight to my tired eyes. It rose majestically between the trees and the rotting wood had an appealing dullness. The old black paint curled off in many places, revealing the green tinted wood of Hades's trees. The heat of the planet caused fast decomposition; the wood could have been fifteen years rotten.

The door was small for an outpost; it was just large enough to fit a Scorpion through. The Scorpion was our tank. It was at least fifteen feet tall, with enough room inside for three: a driver and two gunners. It was over twenty feet long and had room on the left and right sides for eight outer gunners. It was made with thick, red RiboSteel, thick enough to be impenetrable and untouched for five years.

I pushed the door and it slid open surprisingly easy. There were no Scorpions in the outpost, but plenty else was. Guns lined RiboSteel racks and two Warthogs sat untouched in the center. Another rack held a store of fragmentation grenades. Upon inspection, both Warthogs were fueled up and ready to go, and both could start. Each gun was an older model, the first few of each which were manufactured, but the grenades were just like mine.

I took a few grenades to complete my stock, and I checked the guns again. By deduction, I found a plasma rifle and a laser pistol and I replaced my empty guns.

A table previously hidden behind the Warthogs was covered with ammunition in the form of clips and concentrated plasma in glass tubes.

I activated my suit's full array of functions, radar, health monitoring, ammo monitoring, and the HUD. The HUD displayed my current health, ammo, and grenade levels, as well as my radar display. No Covenant were nearby.

I wiped a tear from my eye as I remembered Sebastian. I chose to wait until I was safe to mourn.

Even with weapons, I needed food, so I ventured into the forest and set up various traps, punji stake pits, snares, etc.

I returned to the outpost and slept in the passenger seat of one of the Warthogs. When I woke, the sun was rising.

I left again to check my traps, and I brought a veritable feast: two jackalopes, a wild warthog with orange hair, and a bird similar to a red chicken. I roasted these all over an exposed, outdoor fire and I ate well, choosing to search the area.

I reset my traps, and walked through the strange forest. I came across a clearing and realized my mistake far too late.

A group of Brutes and Jackals were marching into the clearing; I dived over a small hill nearby and hid. The Jackals seemed more ugly and angry than usual; I decided they were flesh eaters. Every one of the small platoon were well armed.

I concocted a plan to escape. Taking careful aim, I randomly fired into the group with my plasma rifle and lobbed a fragmentation grenade into the group.

The ensuing chaos was enough for me to get away unnoticed.

In anger for Sebastian, I returned to the outpost quickly, and I reloaded every gun I had. I packed my empty weapons into a Warthog and climbed in behind them.

The Warthog roared into life and I hit the gas. The ATV tore through the rotten wooden door and I weaved between trees at seventy miles per hour.

I located the same clearing quickly, having gained knowledge of some of the jungle's vast expanse.

I splattered quite a few of the creatures under the front tires and I hit reverse, taking cover behind the same hill.

I drew my guns and fired with fury, exterminating every last alien that could take another human life.

When the last body fell, I gave a grunt of general appreciation and hit the gas again. Eventually I reached the edge of the forest.

The trees were thinning and I had a notion that more Marines would be out here than in the forest.

I slowed the vehicle and found a Warthog trail, a human transport highway, and I followed it for ten miles.

When I slowed to a halt, I saw an encampment, occupied by at least two whole platoons of men.

The platoon sergeant came to me and said, "Who the hell are you? And where did you get that Warthog and those old guns?"

"I am David, Private First Class of the 69th Platoon of Los Angeles, California," I replied with a salute.

"At ease, boy," he said, continuing, "The Spartans, eh? Welcome back."

"Sir, I've been separated from my platoon. Do you have any news?" I asked.

He said to me, "Sorry lad, I don't know how many of you even survived the attack."

"Sebastian was killed by a Hunter," I told him, a tear rolling down my cheek.

"Sorry to hear it. He was a good man, funny, too."

I sat down for a rest while the platoon sergeant took the Warthog and parked it in the garage.

He returned to me and I slumped down in the recreation room, sleeping in a recliner. When I woke, I saw the platoon sergeant loading troops off a Pelican.

I could have left, but I stayed. Vengeance was mine. I joined the 66th Platoon and we went out to battle.

I was vicious, slaying alien after alien and laughing as they fell. Each kill felt like a tribute to Sebastian, and I killed everything, even killing a Hunter with my combat knife.

I fought with them for five more years before being shot.

The Tesla beam tore through my left leg and I was nearly shocked to death. I was honorably discharged and received the Purple Heart and the Congressional Medal of Honor for my many kills.

No medals can ever replace my best friend.


End file.
